Some stories begin with a goodbye. Others begin years after one.
“I live with the ache and the question of whether you ever think of me and those afternoons that tasted like love in Manila.”
That question became a collection.
These pages are filled with people who loved too much, left too late, held on too long, or never got the chance to say what mattered. They are about memory, distance, longing, cities that remember us long after we’ve gone, and the impossible hope that some versions of love never really end.
Tomorrow, I finally get to share it with you.
Afternoons That Tasted Like Love In Manila is a flash fiction collection written for anyone who has ever carried a person, a place, or a moment long after it was over.
If you’ve ever looked back at a city and wondered if it still remembers your name, this book is for you.
Out tomorrow, July 8 on Amazon Worldwide
Thank you to everyone who believed in these stories before they belonged to the world. I can’t wait for them to belong to you, too.
i have watched three of the most important people in my life slip away from me.
my brother. my father. my mother.
three souls who once shared my world, whose voices once filled my days, whose presence i foolishly believed would always be there.
and now… silence.
each departure left behind a wound, a different kind of heartbreak, a sorrow that time seems incapable of healing.
days turn into months. months become years. and yet, here i am, still carrying the weight of their absence.
tell me… how does one measure grief?
is it in the tears we shed? the memories we revisit? the empty spaces at the dinner table? or perhaps in those moments when something wonderful happens, and instinctively, we reach for the phone to tell someone who is no longer there? or the longing for a distinct taste only they can create?
oh, grief…
it is an uninvited companion. it lingers. it follows. it refuses to loosen its grip.
and just when we think we have learned to live without the ones we’ve lost, a familiar song, a passing scent, a forgotten photograph brings everything rushing back.
but i often find myself asking…
why do we grieve?
is it simply because they are gone? because we can no longer hold their hands, hear their laughter, or look into their eyes? perhaps.
but i wonder… is there something deeper?
what if our sorrow comes not only from losing them, but from our belief that they are truly gone?
we measure life in minutes, hours, and years. we believe that when time runs out, everything ends. that what has passed can never exist again. but what if we are wrong?
what if, somewhere beyond the boundaries of what we can see and understand, they still exist in another form?
what if they have not disappeared, but simply moved beyond the reach of our senses?
perhaps they live on in the depth of our bones, in the spaces between our thoughts, in the rhythm of our heartbeat, and in the memories that time cannot erase.
perhaps my father lives within each word i write, every syllable i count, every verses i try to rhyme.
perhaps my brother is still with me in the courage i find when life becomes difficult. perhaps my father lives on in the values he left behind.
and perhaps my mother… my mother continues to live in the tenderness i carry, in the love i give, and in the quiet strength that holds me together when i feel i might fall apart.
could this be what immortality means?
not an endless existence of flesh and blood, but an eternal presence in another form?
maybe death is not the opposite of life, but a transition we are simply not equipped to understand.
and maybe grief…
maybe grief is the price we pay for having loved so deeply.
it reminds us that someone mattered. that someone touched our lives so profoundly that even their absence cannot undo their presence.
so perhaps i must stop asking when this grief will end.
perhaps it was never meant to end completely. perhaps the purpose is not to forget, not to move on as though they never existed, but to learn to carry their love differently.
because i have lost my brother. i have lost my father. i have lost my mother.
but have i really lost everything they gave me? no.
their voices may have fallen silent, but their words remain.
their hands may no longer hold mine, but their love still holds me.
their lives may have ended, but the meaning of their lives continues within mine.
and so, i grieve.
not only because they are gone, but because i am still here, learning to live in a world that no longer has them in it.
and perhaps, one day, i will understand what i cannot understand today.
until then, i will carry them.
in my thoughts. in my actions. in my memories. in every breath that reminds me i was once loved by them.
for maybe the greatest tragedy of death is not that life comes to an end…
but that we spend so much time believing love must end with it.
and i refuse to believe that.
Note:
on this all souls’ day, we remember those who have gone before us, my brother, my father, my mother, and all the souls we hold dear. though their voices have fallen silent and their presence is no longer beside us, their love remains woven into our hearts. may they find eternal peace, and may we find comfort in believing that love never truly dies. forever remembered, forever loved, never forgotten.
Dennis’ prompt: Giving the Abstract a Voice For this prompt, write a poem that gives an abstract idea a personality, a voice, and a life of its own.
Choose something we cannot physically touch: Destiny, Time, Hope, Justice, Fear, Memory, Regret, Silence, Truth or any other abstract concept that interests you.
Imagine your chosen concept as a character. What might it say? How might it behave? What does it do when nobody is watching? Does it enjoy its work? Does it have ambitions, habits, complaints, prejudices or regrets? Does it understand how its actions affect people? You are especially encouraged to draw on your own culture, language, mythology, folklore or personal experience to give your character a distinctive identity and voice.
Your personification can be comic, tragic, sinister, tender, absurd, philosophical or anything in between. Perhaps Time is tired of being blamed for everything. Maybe Hope is stubborn. Perhaps Memory keeps things it was asked to throw away.
You might write a dramatic monologue in which the concept speaks directly to us, a conversation between two competing abstractions, a sonnet, an allegory, a satire or something completely different. These are only possibilities, not restrictions.
“You always want to fix things after I stop wanting them,” Sia said gently.
Marc stared at her, waiting for the familiar tears, the trembling voice, the desperate plea for him to stay. He was the classic delusional boyfriend, convinced that no matter how badly he treated her, Sia would always come running back. He had seen this scene a hundred times before. He would hurt her, she would threaten to leave, and he would wait for her to beg him to stay. She always did.
At least, she always had.
Marc had mistaken her patience for weakness and her forgiveness for permission. Every time she stayed, he pushed a little further, testing just how far he could go before she finally broke. He had grown so comfortable with her love that he believed losing her was never a real possibility. But somewhere between his empty apologies and broken promises, Sia had grown tired of being the classic submissive girlfriend who kept forgiving, waiting, and begging for the bare minimum.
Now, she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t even asking him to change. She was simply done.
For the first time, Marc understood that it was truly over. He reached for her hand, but she stepped away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I know,” she replied softly. “But I’m not waiting for you to mean it anymore.”
Then she left.
Marc stood frozen, waiting for the moment she would turn around. Waiting for her to change her mind. Waiting, as he had always expected her to, for love to make her stay.
But Sia never looked back.
Marc had always believed he could lose her a hundred times and still win her back on the hundred-and-first.
He never imagined that one day, she would stop playing.
And just like that, the classic story of a man realizing a woman’s worth only after losing her became his own.
Global warming is affecting the entire world, causing rising temperatures, melting ice, rising sea levels, and extreme weather. Its effects are felt worldwide, reminding us of the urgent need to protect our planet and preserve nature for future generations.
For Val’s Scavenger Hunt
Write a Pi-ku. This is a syllabic form derived from the Haiku. It consists of a single stanza of 3 lines with a syllable count equivalent to the 1st 3 digits of pi (π) 3-1-4.
Sunday rain falls brief respite comes Indonesia’s fires
rain cools the ash flames fall silent wild fires yield to rain
Note:
The poem reflects the relief brought by Sunday’s rain to fire fighters in Indonesia who have battled wild fires for months. The rain offers a brief respite, bringing hope that the flames will finally subside.
For Val’s Scavenger Hunt
Write a Kelly Lune. (Created by Robert Kelly) This American form of Haiku consists of a tercet with a syllable count of 5-3-5. There is no rhyme required but it is allowed.
You once called her the best thing that ever happened to you. The love of your life. The woman you swore you couldn’t live without.
You kissed her like she was sacred, held her like she was fragile, and promised her a forever you never intended to keep.
But heartbreak has a way of turning prayers into curses.
When you left, you didn’t just break her heart; you awakened something ancient inside her. Grief became her teacher, loneliness her sanctuary, and every tear she shed watered the dark magic growing beneath her skin.
She disappeared into the woods as a woman who still believed in love and returned as something even the devil feared.
She learned to whisper to shadows, summon storms with a trembling hand, and turn the names of her enemies into curses. She mastered the art of witchcraft, not because she was born evil, but because the man who promised toprotect her had taught her how cruel love could be.
Now, you call her a monster.
But tell me, how does a woman become a nightmare to the world when she was once someone’s sweetest dream?
Perhaps the real witchcraft was never hers.
Perhaps it was the magic you used to make her believe you would love her forever.
in every word that Jesus speaks, a gentle heart is what He seeks. through trials and joys, through dark and light, His loving truth will guide us right.
love God with all your soul and mind, in Him, true peace and joy we find. let every prayer and deed we do reflect a heart that’s pure and true.
love your neighbor, be kind and fair, offer your help, your love, your care. for faith shines brightest when we show the love of Christ to all we know.
Inspired by today’s Gospel: Matthew 22:34–40, the greatest commandments of love.
Today’s Gospel reminds us that the greatest commandments are to love God with all our heart, soul, and mind, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. True faith is not only shown through prayers but also through our actions, kindness, and compassion toward others. May we always put God first and share His love with everyone we meet.
el niño arrives, the dry earth cries out the heat rises, drought draws near thirsty winds steal our breath
the sun burns fiercely over head every one pants in the heat breath fades in the still air
the parched land waits for rain to fall dry rivers crack under the sun clouds pass without a drop
Note:
The Philippine government has issued warnings and precautionary measures in anticipation of a potentially strong El Niño phenomenon. We are already feeling the rising temperatures, reminding us to conserve water, prepare for possible drought, and take the necessary precautions to protect our health an denvironment.
For Val’s Scavenger Hunt
Write a Kimo. This is a post-haiku form from Israel having 3 lines with a syllable count of 10-7-6. There is no rhyme.
she saw the ad in a newspaper mail-order bride. a ticket to a greener pasture, a promise of a better life.
she was eighteen, barely legal, barely grown, with dreams too big for the poverty she had always known.
she left home her mother’s prayers, her father’s silence, the familiar ache of a country that taught her how to endure but not how to dream.
she packed her life into a suitcase, her hopes into an envelope, her future into a stranger’s hands. an ocean away, someone was waiting to call her his.
they promised her a house, a husband, a chance a life where hunger would be history, where sacrifice might finally mean something.
and so she crossed the sea, a filipina bride, carrying the weight of a family she could no longer hold but still hoped to save.
they called it marriage. they called it opportunity. they called her lucky.
but who asked the girl what she wanted?
who told her that love could be bought with a photograph, a signature, a plane ticket?
she was eighteen old enough to leave, young enough to believe that every greener pasture was green for a reason.
and somewhere between the country she left and the stranger’s home, she learned that distance could make an ocean of her loneliness, that a roof was not always shelter, that a ring could close around a finger like a promise or a cage.
still, remember this:
she was never just a bride ordered from a page. she was a daughter, a sister, a girl with a name, a woman who dared to leave because staying had its own kind of pain.
she did not cross the sea because she had no dreams.
she crossed it because she had too many and back home, too few ways to make them come true.
Note:
This poem is a disturbing reminder that, even in this day and age, some Filipinas still see marrying a foreigner as a possible escape from poverty and a ticket to a better life. Mail-order brides were particularly visible in the 1980s and 1990s, when economic hardship and the promise of a life abroad led some women to seek husbands in other countries. What is heartbreaking is that, for some, the dream of escaping poverty can come at the cost of their freedom, dignity, and emotional well-being. The poem asks us to look beyond the label of mail-order bride and see the young woman behind it, a daughter, a dreamer, and a human being hoping for a better future. It is a sobering reflection on how poverty can make even a stranger’s promise of love seem like the only way out.
For David’s Weekly Prompt – I used free verse as the poetic form for this poem.
Kim’s Prompt
This week, I’d like you to write a poem about a specific person, real or imaginary, who has had to leave home. Your poem could tell a fairy tale, offer a confession, or recount the experience of someone you know, admire, or have just met in passing. These stories can also be uplifting, joyful, or funny. Focus on one person’s experience. Tell us why they left and what happened to them. Describe their journey, both physical and personal. Please include the word “home” in your poem. Write in a known poetic form of your choice and tell us which form you are using. You could share your favorite form or try something ne
